Accordo fra Gentiluomini
by liriaen
Summary: Accordo fra Gentiluomini ['Gentlemen's Agreement']: Floréan faces bankruptcy in 1470's Florence... and desperate situations call for desperate measures. [Renaissance AU. Noir x Floréan. Rated M.]


**Title**: Accordo fra Gentiluomini (Gentlemen's Agreement)  
**Author**: liriaen  
**Prompt**: Gorgeous Carat - Renaissance-AU - _"Where are my clothes, and why does my ass hurt?"_  
**Rating**: R  
**Wordcount**: 5.300  
**Summary**: Desperate situations call for desperate measures.  
**A/N**: Written for the Crossover- and AU-fest on yaoi challenge. One phrase is taken from Peter Greenaway's splendid film "The Draughtsman's Contract" - you'll know which one. :) Noir is Neri here, and he insists on translating Floréan's family name, too. Thank you, Moshesque, for speedy beta! Any remaining mistakes are my own, as always. Enjoy!

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**Accordo fra Gentiluomini**

---

"Messer Roccaforte-"

"De Rochefort."

"Messer Roccaforte, that is a huge sum. If you don't mind me saying so." Neri got up and started wandering the room, leaving Floréan to glumly stare at the ledgers and scrolls heaped on Neri's desk. He did not need this. He did not need a Florentine banker - and God knew they were cutthroats, the whole lot of them - rifling through his deeds and accounts. As if his name alone weren't security enough.

When he craned his neck to look beyond the wide, open windows of Palazzo Neri, Floréan could see the towers that still ruled this part of town. Remnants of an earlier age, the squat family fortresses of the murderous clans of old. There even were some of the old catwalks and escape routes left - a maze of wooden scaffolding the Florentines had built high above their narrow, shaded streets for whenever a rival clan came calling in a blood feud. Smart people, the Florentines.

Floréan snorted, a puff of breath that sounded both weary and contemptuous. He watched Neri's ponderous march, watched him consult with his secretaries at the far end of the hall, watched him deliberate and prevaricate and theatrically wave his arms about.

Then Neri came back. He dropped into the chair behind the desk, acting inexpressibly stricken.

"Your forgiveness," he sighed. "I can't. We cannot do this." Shaking his head, he knitted his brows and pursed his lips, gazing at Floréan with all the grief a Florentine banker could muster - which wasn't much, unless a shipment of Carrara for his new palazzo disappeared in the brown swill of the Arno.

Floréan held his breath. He would be surprised if Neri actually left it at that.

Indeed, Neri planted his elbows on the heavy desk and started plucking clouds of white muslin from his lace-up sleeves, ostensibly deep in thought. His farsetto of dark grey damask was exquisitely tailored, Floréan duly noted: hugging his chest, the lower and upper arms tied on separately with red satin ribbons - nothing flashy. Tasteful. Expensive.

"Maybe..." Neri tipped his mouth with an index finger. "Maybe Strozzi? Have you tried him yet? Or our colleagues in Palazzo Salimbeni?"

This was getting ridiculous. Floréan felt like massaging the bridge of his nose. "Messer Neri. Now we are wasting time," he said quietly, with as much dignity as possible. "Both yours and mine. I have told you I've spoken to Strozzi, as well as to the local Siennese, yes. I've talked to Medici. I've talked to Pazzi. The first thing I've learnt here, Messer, is that the Florentines have sharp eyes and even sharper tongues. Which makes me suspect you knew all of this long before I came calling."

"Ah, now you hurt me." Neri put his hand on his breast. "I was merely trying to help. But, you see, the income from your vineyards isn't enough by far to cover such a sum. We'd need more security than that. - Stefano!" he called down the hall, leaning to the left to wave past Floréan, "Ser Stefano, would you please come here for a moment?" Smiling vaguely, he continued, "My man has established a list of your assets, both movable and immovable. It pains me to say your bank in Paris should have done something like this ere you invested in this sad undertaking." He softly clucked his tongue. "The Adriatic hasn't been safe since Il Gran Turco took Constantinople, you see. Everybody here knows that. Trade in the Eastern Mediterranean has become such terribly dangerous business. Which is why we leave it to the Venetians." Smiling wrily, the Florentine spread his hands. "Practically Turks themselves, what with paying tribute to the Porte. Ecco, please - no need to roll your eyes, Messer Roccaforte. Just a word of advice, freely given. And by God, I wish I could have given it to you before you put so much money into this venture."

He did that well, the worried "oh, it pains me"-look, Floréan thought, and braced himself. By now the rotund little man Neri had addressed as Ser Stefano was busy leafing through a ledger on their table, mopping his brow.

"What heat, Messers," he babbled. "Quite unseasonable. Aren't you hot, sir?" he asked Floréan. "Good Flemish velvet, I am sure, but black? Oh, my poor heart. I'd be too hot."

Neri softly smacked Stefano's pate with a rolled-up piece of parchment. "Don't blather, you silly man. Black is all the rage in France this year, isn't it?" He smiled at Floréan. His return to business was all the more abrupt. "Bene. This column here? Details your current debt, with estimated interest accrued until Michaelmas. While on this side we have the sum total of your estates. Not a good year in Bourgogne, sad to say, so the vineyards have gone down, detto the salt mines in the South. - And you're really related to the Rohan family? Interesting... interesting. One of the first houses of France. They wouldn't be able to help you out here? No? So sad. Err, where was I?"

"Salt mines," Ser Stefano offered helpfully, twirling a quill.

"Right. Then the silver mines tra'montana, in Navarra... good value, I'm sure. Without access, though, what with Navarra on the brink of war with Aragon. Your castles and villas... nice. I've seen groundpla-"

Floréan rose, bristling. "Where would you have-"

"Relax, Roccaforte, relax. It's my line of business. I need to know what I'm dealing with."

"You just said you weren't dealing with me."

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Neri looked at Ser Stefano. "The French. So hasty." He took a gulp of chilled Vernaccia and leaned back. "I think... I think perhaps we may come to terms yet. You and I, that is, privately, without having to strain the coffers of the bank. What would you say if I offered you fifty percent up front and the other fifty in two payments, to be paid after compliance?"

"After?" Floréan wrinkled his nose. "Compliance? Speak sense, man." His heart seemed to be jumping from his ribcage though, straining his doublet. Anything, to spare him the ignominy of banca rotta.

Neri got up and clapped his hands, a signal for the scribes and secretaries to scatter. Curiously, Stefano remained seated, smoothing a piece of milled paper, aligning quills and ink, placidly looking on as Neri waved Floréan to the window.

"There's been a deal, recently struck in Venice," Neri said quietly, intently, "that has been the talk of the trade for the past week or two. Quite scandalous, everybody agrees, even if it was made in good faith. The sum was a little less exorbitant that what you'd need to remain afloat. It's not so much the bond itself that caused the stir; it's the collateral: a pound of flesh, to be taken from the body of the debtor should he fail to pay in full." Leisurely draping his limbs across the sill, Neri seemed to enjoy Floréan's splutter, the scandalised gasp coming from his lips.

"And you're suggesting something along the same lines?" Floréan stuttered. "Neri, you're sick. This is sick, man."

"Quite," the banker laughed, stretching into the sun. "But see, I really want your eyes."

---

_"... to meet Messer R. Balzacchi de' Neri in private and to comply with his requests concerning his pleasure with me."_

The parchment slipped from Floréan's hand and sailed to the floor. Groaning, he turned to look at it. There was his signature all right, next to Neri's, Ser Stefano's, and two witnesses from Neri's house.

His eyes.

Absurd.

Neri had hurried to ensure he wasn't going to take them, madonna, no. Only wanted to look at them. Promesso.

Floréan had jerked back in panic, knocking over a candleholder, but Neri had talked him down again, soothing him as if he were a mare and needed a few pats on the rump.

Patently absurd, that's what it was. And what a small thing his honour had become, signed away on a bit of parchment... Neri had spent minutes serenading Floréan's virtù, which was the cruelest pun of all, since the word meant nothing like virtue, and...

... and Floréan felt a bit sick now.

He felt even sicker when Neri was announced and led into the study. The banker had shed his sober daytime garments for something more ostentatious: a wine red farsetto with an acanthus pattern woven in gold thread, a thin camacia pleated a hundred times over, and a giornea of amber velvet so voluminous it kept getting tangled in his arms whenever he waved them about. Which he did quite a lot, Floréan thought, mainly in praise of Floréan's villa, its furnishings, its gardens, and, when he'd run out of paintings and busts to laud, its host.

Host indeed.

"Were you even listening, Messer Roccaforte?" Neri inquired, sounding amused. "Or is your heart back in France, perhaps? That would be sad. And I would feel quite slighted. For, you see," he stepped closer, twirling a strand of hair, "I have paid good Florin for this privilege, and wouldn't it be deplorable if you carried on with such a mien? Cheer up, friend! It's not the end of the world, is it?"

Floréan mumbled something like "easy for you to say", but then Neri stepped into his space. Stepped quite close, in fact, nipping at an earlobe. Floréan froze.

"Sh sh sh, don't discomfort yourself so, man. I'm not going to eat you." Holding out a hand to brush through Floréan's locks, Neri breathed, "That how they wear it France this year? Interesting. Very soft." He affected a lisp on the soft and quirked a brow. "But-" impatient wave of a hand, "-nowhere near as lovely as your eyes. Let's have a look."

He grabbed Floréan by the chin and turned his face into the light.

Blushing furiously, Floréan freed himself. "You're out of bounds, Neri."

"You think so?" The banker whirled on a heel, smiling. "I see you've got your copy of the contract ready for future reference. How thoughtful of you. Do I have to reiterate the terms, for your edification? No? Excellent." He clapped his hands like a giddy boy. "May I ask you to undress, then?

"What?"

"Undress. Come se dice? Remove your garments. And please, do not open and close your mouth like a carp? That's unbecoming." With that, Neri sat, pouring himself wine from a caraffe of Bohemian cut glass, impatiently waving his hand. "Come now. Off with it."

Floréan bit his lip to the point of bleeding.

Half the sum had arrived earlier this evening in bonds and drafts, countersigned by Floréan and sent out post haste to keep the more rabid of his creditors at bay. Regrettably, he couldn't simply give them back... throw the lot at Neri's feet, showing him what he thought of their deal. Equally regrettably, he wasn't wearing a giornea or any other of the foppish Italian tunics that could have served as an extra layer between him and the banker.

"Fine," he said with an air of exasperation and started fumbling with his lacings. When Neri spoke again, Floréan expected the cultivated voice to have lost its patience, but the banker only raised more wine to his lips.

"Your _mutande_, too, please."

"What?"

"You've heard me," Neri said over the rim of his glass. "Your underwear."

Floréan didn't so much breathe as hiss through his teeth, nostrils flaring. "This is ridiculous," he grimaced, eyes blazing.

"Quite," Neri smiled and patted the carved armrest. Floréan knew an order when he heard one.

---

The night was balmy, the air sweet with jasmin and honeysuckle, when Neri called for his man to light the candles. He lay on a daybed, studying the coffered ceiling. Unfashionable. Positively unfashionable, the heavy woodwork. The gilt carving was tolerable, but the ensemble was a decade out of date, at least. He'd have to see to that. Get someone to do some frescoes perhaps. No Last Judgement, thank you very much; rather something joyous, with allegories and clever allusions to the Neri name. Maybe Stefano could tweak the contract enough to force Roccaforte to pose as model? They'd only agreed upon three meetings, all right, but what if one of those occasions was never brought to... completion? Neri's gratification denied, thus practically endlessly deferred? Hm. Yes. That could work. At least it bore looking into.

One stockinged foot dangling idly, Neri yawned and softly smacked his lips. He was about to fall into a slumber when a noise from the door raised his hackles and jolted him awake.

"You!" she snapped. "You filthy, good for nothing-... Have you no decency?" She stomped and snorted - like an Arabian horse, Neri thought, recoiling too slowly to escape a smack with her fan.

"Uh, Laila," he began, but didn't get far.

"The whole street is talking! What am I saying, the whole town!" Her accent got heavier when she was agitated, like now, to the point of slipping back into a heady mix of Persian and Turkish without notice. Neri placidly looked at her, letting her tirade wash over him. It almost sounded like poetry, a particularly rich wine from Thrace. "Laila, dear. Calm yourself, will you? It's a business transaction, nothing more. Come here a second."

She seemed to consider smacking him again, but settled for sitting next to him. Had anyone asked, the Signoria maybe, the Doge, the Pope even, he'd have said the Grand Turk was very welcome to keep Constantinople, which would have been an unpopular opinion, granted, but founded on the fact that Neri possessed the one artefact from the Golden Horn that was worth having.

The House of Osman was probably happy to be rid of her, too, seeing as she lacked every virtue commonly desired and bred into a lady of the Saray, which explained, perhaps, why there had been no retribution forthcoming when the royal barge had been attacked by pirates while en route to Adalar. No search party either, for that matter.

"My dove, listen. It's very simple, really. He's in dire straits, and I am taking advantage of it. If I didn't, somebody else would." Martyred sigh. "I'm doing him a favour, actually, and at great cost to mysel-" Whack. "Have I told you already you're looking radiant today? That green stomacher thing suits you." Whack. "Honestly." Then he abruptly rose on one elbow. "God's bones, Laila, what have you done to your hair?"

Now she smiled for the first time since swooping into the room like a small gauzy hawk. "You like it?" she said, stroking the shorn forehead that had begun to peak from her headdress.

Neri goggled, then raised one eyebrow. "Umm. And it's supposed to achieve what exactly? Are you contemplating Holy Orders that you're shaving like a nun? You want to enter a nunnery? That would be a breach of contract, I'll have you know."

"Pfft. Stupid man," she said, miffed. "High forehead, lofty thoughts, see? That's how they wear it now."

"Oh," he said, sounding unenthused. "Lovely."

---

Floréan dreaded their next meeting like a man with stones feared the chirurgeon, the difference being that Floréan had nothing in excess, but rather a pronounced lack of things; a lack only to be redressed if he met Neri again.

Two more nights like this.

The thought alone brought him close to heaving, and he had to quell his unease by deep draughts from a jug of too-warm Trebbiano.

The ignominy. Neri's catamite. And everbody knew it, too. If word of this reached France... if any of this filtered through to his family in Rohan... He thought he felt a migraine coming on.

Unable to concentrate on his business, he closed the books and sent his secretaries home. De Rochefort, he thought, pronouncing the name with all the veneration it deserved; a first house of France, old enough for its roots to reach into the time of myth. A Rochefort, naked before a Florentine moneylender, knees scraping his own Kazhaki rugs. As these things went, Neri had probably been gentle; Floréan bore no bites or bruises. The man really seemed more interested in Floréan's eyes - draping him so he could relish them whenever Floréan's temper flared. The moment his lids had fluttered, Neri had stopped, asking him to look at him.

Truth be told, it hadn't been so difficult or onerous to comply. Neri had never crossed the line between attending to him and actual assault. And yet. This sort of contract...

"Do that again," a voice said softly, suddenly.

Floréan's head jerked up.

Somebody had let Neri in without announcing him, or the wretch had let himself in, or-

"Do what again," Floréan snapped, whirling in his seat. Then he noticed Neri's black eye. "My god, what's happened to you? Were you attacked?"

"No, no, nothing of the sort." Neri waved tiredly. He carefully lowered himself into a chair by Floréan's desk and smiled crookedly. "You looked very sweet just now. That little puff of air you let out? Like a dainty black cloud: pffft." His eye or his head seemed to hurt when he laughed, so he twisted his face into an amused grotesque instead. "I had a domestic mishap," he said finally, lamely. "Nothing to worry about."

Floréan's voice went cold; he was angry at himself for having felt concern for the man, even for one second. "In all honesty? I find it amazing you still manage to drag yourself here. A lesser man would have preferred a lie-down to this... this sordid business."

"Actually... I do," Neri nervously laughed. "Think I'll lie down here, if you don't mind. I believe the terms of our agreement cover that?"

The fucking gall. "As it stands, I am held _to comply with your requests concerning your pleasure with me_," Floréan replied drily. "So do as you like."

"Mhhh." Neri closed his eyes and only opened them when Floréan touched his shoulder, a little later.

"I've had a bed prepared for you. Are you coming?"

Slinking after Floréan like a wounded jackal, Neri followed him to a small vestibule to the side of his study, wedged between the more public rooms and Floréan's suites. He slumped on the coverlet and allowed his host to lift his long legs up on the bed.

Sighing, Floréan fluffed and plumped some pillows for him, then stood to go. "Yell if you need something."

"Uh, Roccaforte?" Neri's good eye was twitching, intently watching him. "Where do you think you're going? Weren't you going to undress? Now, please."

Whereupon Floréan let out an uncharacteristically loud and ungodly string of curses, and Neri merely smiled in bliss.

---

"He. He... what?"

Sputtered sherbet clung melting to his farsetto of black satin. Floréan noticed it without noticing, distractedly plucking around the crushed ice and raisins without stopping them from soiling his clothes. Eventually he scooped up a bit of fruit with a fingernail and put it in his mouth. "You aren't serious, madonna," he said at last, gazing at the woman as if she'd just claimed to be the Sultan's daughter.

She'd invited him over to Palazzo Neri, a polite request for an interview in private. It had looked like a summons by Neri himself, and Floréan had dropped his quill and seen to his hair and made sure he wore something that brought out his physique. He'd rushed down the streets in the mid-day glare of summer, thinking _this is it._ He would be done with it today. Shuffled off his coil, paid his dues, spreading them one last time for Neri, and once Neri had paid in full...

Once he'd paid in full, maybe one could come to another arrangement thereafter, one that was mutual and of more benefit to Floréan's pleasure, which had become embarrassingly obvious (and audible) with Neri underneath and Floréan holding on to headboard and bedposts.

Alas, he had been greeted by a woman. Not Neri.

"He's out for the day, I'm afraid," she had said, fanning herself, her smile like honey and asphodel. "Gone hunting with Medici. You will have to be satisfied with my poor company, Monsieur Rochefort, for it is I who called upon you. Pleased to meet you."

"At your service, madonna." He'd lavished a deep, courtly bow upon her, French style, which had made her grin. It seemed to have broken some of the ice as well.

But what she had just told him, on top of her strange, strange plan... "You're in jest, mia cara," he muttered, still picking raisin off his doublet.

She adjusted her silken hairband and scratched the dark stubble on her forehead. "What now. You understood Italian just fine, until a moment ago, no? Why so surprised? He hasn't told you?" Leaning back, she patted the narrow confines of her lace-up fazzoletto and the stomacher of emerald velvet, looking very pleased with herself.

"Mistress..."

"Laila."

"Mistress Laila, how can I be sure of this? Your offer sounds tempting, to say the least. I would be lying, should I pretend otherwise." Floréan coughed. "And certainly, I can dispose of my copy of the contract as I see fit. But who's to guarantee that Messer Neri won't pull out his, denying me the financial... benefits... by virtue of my non-compliance? I can assure you, said benefits were the sole _raison d'être_ for our agreement. At least from my end."

"Hm. Yes." She eyed him warily, tapping her fan against her lips. "Our friend can be quite convincing though, can't he. Ecco, listen; this is what I propose." Crooking one index finger, she bade him come closer and whispered in his ear. And when their heads no longer were bent together, she peered at his garish flush and the incredible shade of his eyes, and laughed and laughed and laughed.

"But... Madonna," Floréan stuttered, inspecting the dark bits in the sherbet. Now that she mentioned it... they looked an awful lot like torn strips of paper, boiled and soaked in wine.

---

Bounding up the wide marble stairs, Neri took two steps at a time. He was positively bouncing, foregoing_gravitas_, ditching the measured bearing of a banker, throwing all manners to the wind.

A maid downstairs had taken his mantle and rapier, and while fussing over his clothes, she had intimidated that the young lord was awaiting his arrival _most anxiously_. That he'd ordered a lavish feast, with the best dishes the cook had been able to come up with: roasted crane and partridge, lamprey with spice and pepper sauce, snake's back with marchpane, and enough confit to last them a week. And that he'd sent to the chandler's shop for several pounds of the best candlewax, as well as other things to make his guest more comfortable.

Oh really? Neri smiled to himself.

True, their second meeting had gone better than the first. So good in fact that he couldn't help preening a bit. As things stood, he had no intention to insist on his metaphorical pound of flesh. Madonna, no. What would he ever do with that? Stuff like that only rotted in the sun. No, he was satisfied with looking at Roccaforte's eyes - the way they blazed in indignation, turned soft and hazy when one petted him just right, or kept rolling back into his head.

When he entered the hall, he could see Roccaforte perched on one of the wide window sills, playing the lute.

"Mio caro," Neri said sweetly. "How does the day find you? I hastened here as soon as my paperwork allowed. You're looking well. Thriving. Pray tell, is that because you're glad of soon being rid of me? Your play suggests as much." He knitted his brows in exaggerated worry.

Slowly, Roccaforte swung his head in his direction. His eyes looked a bit heavy, Neri thought. "Mhh, quite so," Roccaforte said, plucking some chords. "You're out of breath, Neri. You truly did hurry, I see. I'm flattered. What a pull I must have. Or should I say, certain parts of me?"

"Cruel, my friend. How cruel you are! And for a second I was deceived into hoping you were actually happy to see me." Neri crumpled a bit.

"You bought me, man. I do not see where happiness comes into play here. But perhaps" - he jumped off the window sill and walked over - "perhaps we could find a pastime that is mutually enjoyable for this last meeting?"

Fingering the gemstones of his velvet bonnet, Neri said lamely, "That's not per se covered by our contract, I'm afraid. Besides, I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about. I didn't hear you complain too loudly last time."

"Never mind then," Roccaforte smiled. "Shall we to table?"

---

Demeaning as it was, with Floréan naked on Neri's knee and Neri quaffing Floréan's best imported Bordeaux and _fondling_ him, Floréan was doing his best to draw things out. He'd had all candles lit, they had eaten sparingly of the extravagant supper, Neri arguing they'd well be hungry later. Presently, Floréan squirmed on Neri's lap, cheeks aglow, eyes dark enough to rival the sunset. He bent forward to shove his face into the crook of Neri's neck and whispered something.

The banker paused for a second - and then was quick to comply. He lifted Floréan off his lap, got up and undid his belt, untied his farsetto, unlaced the sleeves. "Better?"

"Much," Floréan nodded. Then he playfully swatted Neri's behind; lightly at first, a little harder the second time, enjoying the man's look of surprise. Neri began to eye him with suspicion when Floréan smacked him a third time, using the flat palm of his hand. It couldn't quite mask the little yelp, though. "Would you..." Floréan struggled with the words, feigning shame. "Why don't you-" He waved at Neri's straining hose. "Isn't that uncomfortable?" he offered.

"Oh, and since when is my comfort your priority?" Neri replied, cocking his head. "You are receiving a more than handsome recompense for your trouble, true, but..." His voice trailed away, only to rise sharply when Floréan slapped his bottom again.

"Could it be possible that you like that?" Floréan stroked along and down the narrow hips. "That no-one dares touch him like that, the great Messer de' Neri, and that he has to pay skilled courtesans to do him the favour?"

Neri twitched, but still managed to look down his nose. "What the-"

"Please," Floréan whispered. "Let me."

He wondered what it sounded like to a casual passer-by. Not that many ever came this way, his palazzo standing at the narrow end of a piazzetta a few streets removed from the bustle. Still, his ears couldn't help savouring the smacks that wafted out the open windows; the round smacks and grunts of Neri coming quite... undone. He looked glorious, too, his backside a bright shade of crimson.

Floréan straightened his fingers and spanked Neri with renewed vigour. He enjoyed listening to the incongruously soft sounds of the evening outside, some woman's idle chatter, the familiar clipclop of hooves.

Fidgeting and as naked as God had made him, Neri fumbled to get a better hold of the table. He was slippery with sweat, and Floréan was surprised to find he didn't mind so much; at least they both were bare now. Soon Neri was mewling. He began to look quite... tender, too. It took no great effort to nudge him closer to the window, bend him into the cool night air. Floréan was slapping and nuzzling him, pressing him up against the window recess, and with a beautifully resounding, final smack, he hefted Neri over the sill.

Having reassured himself that Neri had indeed landed on the haywain, Floréan threw his clothes right after and went to pour himself some wine.

---

Two days later, Fortune smiled again on Floréan de Rochefort. Two of the ships he'd invested in came through from the Levante, their holds filled with spices, incense, and bolts of Chinese silk, and just as he was about to close the books for the day, a magnificently carved chest of rosewood was delivered.

Neri's third payment.

Floréan hesitated for a moment before he signed for it. Then he left his palazzo in a rush. He needed to clear his head, perhaps go down to the busy banks of the Arno for a spell. Walking past the old bridge with its horrific smell of butcheries, he continued on to Santi Apostoli where he gave thanks and alms, and when the day began to wane, he sat down in an outdoors tavern close to the Signoria.

The locale was simple, and frequented by labourers and artisans from the neighbouring quarter. Floréan dined on a plate of roasted meats that he washed down with a jug of chilled wine, meditating on the vagaries of Fate, when a conversation at a nearby table caught his ear.

Two coarse fellows were exchanging gossip, and one nearly spat wine and bread across the table, bleating. "No, really, he said that, I swear on my mother's tits! My cousin drove and parked the cart like that wench ordered, and when Neri came to, two streets later, he said, _Where are my clothes, and why does my ass hurt?"_

"That's priceless." The other man shook his head. "Just goes to show, eh? The French. What a pervy lot."

Shoving food and drink away, Floréan hurried up to pay.

---

Lounging in his study, Neri looked at him as if Floréan were something he might want to scrape off his heel, ignoring Floreán's soft "buona sera" as well as his deep bow.

"Well, Messer Roccaforte," he said slowly, withdrawing deeper into his houppelande, "I trust you've had your fun. You've paid your bills, by virtue of a contract that seems to have miraculously disappeared, and you've made me a laughing stock. Congratulations." Gingerly rearranging himself behind his desk, cradling one arm in a sling, he added, "That fall could have killed me; you're aware of that, I hope?"

Floréan chewed his lip. It hadn't seemed likely at the time. Laila had assured him she'd take care of things, and he had trusted her.

"I'm aware of it now," he answered quietly, blushing. "I had no designs upon your life."

"God's wounds, man, I know that. I would have dragged you before the magistrate, had I thought otherwise," Neri coughed, his voice betraying a hint of anger. "I still could, you know?" Mumbling to himself he shook his head and shifted around in his seat, wincing.

Silence began to stretch between them. Both knew exactly what that would look like, without proper papers - one of the usual altercations among those sort of people. No contract, no proof, no debt.

Floréan watched Neri.

Neri watched Floréan.

"You've been lucky, I hear," said the banker at last, gazing past Floréan. "Your name seems to have been favoured by the gods. - Well. One never knows, does one. Fortune is fickle. Should you by any chance find yourself in need of funds again, I would ask you to please consult another house in Florence. Good day to you, Messer Roccaforte."

Pretending to get ready to leave, Floréan rummaged through his pockets. "Here," he said at last, shoving a piece of paper across the desk. "My copy. The only extant one, from what I know. I'm sure Ser Stefano will be able to make something of it. Although," he added, "perhaps there might a discussion to be had, at a later point, concerning a new sort of bond."

"A new sort of bond. Would there now," Neri retorted.

Floréan's eyes flared. _Bon dieu_, but the man was slow.

It was only when he caught Neri grinning like the cat that got the cream that it occurred to him that maybe he wasn't.

---

---


End file.
